


la hora de los silencios

by laratoncita



Series: To Live & Die in LA [7]
Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, F/M, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 07:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: You're not too good at keeping promises.





	la hora de los silencios

**Author's Note:**

> i should probably wait to post this until i get to the appropriate chapter in "antes" but i'm antsy so :)

pero siento tu hora,  
la hora de que mi vida gotee sobre tu alma,  
la hora de las ternuras que no derramé nunca,  
la hora de los silencios que no tienen palabras,  
tu hora, alba de sangre que me nutrió de angustias,  
tu hora, medianoche que me fue solitaria.

pablo neruda, llénate de mí

The two of you start arguing over the phone.

“Oscar, please,” she says, “you said—”

“I know what I said,” you snap, and when she falls silent you squeeze your eyes shut. You hate doing shit over the phone. You want to get Cesar in the car and drive over to her place and spend the night like you said you would, because she’s got a campus visit that weekend and you’re supposed to make the trip with her. Spend a few days in San Diego and run around with Cesar, making sure Claudia’s going to be okay, away from Freeridge and away from you.

She keeps talking about you just coming with her. It’s not like she’s going to be living on campus, two-bedrooms are affordable, they stay forging your mom’s signature as is. She offered to fucking adopt Cesar, for God’s sake, not that it would ever happen. You said you’d go with her. You want to be with her every step she takes away from the neighborhood, even if leaving feels impossible most days.

Lately she seems real tired of you. Reminds you, just a little bit, of the way your mom started to act, after you were jumped in. The way she looked at you different, the tilt of her head. Claudia does that, sometimes, watches you like she can’t quiet recognize the man in front of her. You don’t always feel like a man—still feel like you’re playing at something. At being a Santo, at raising Cesar, at being good to Claudia. You’re trying so fucking hard but it feels impossible, sometimes.

Point Loma Nazarene. They didn’t offer as much money as SDU but they have a better program for Claudia, and it’s not like she’s got any debt as is. Not even nineteen, pays off her single credit card just fine, found a shitty little three bedroom with some girls over in La Avenida, somehow, and she likes it there a lot. Likes the apartment and her roommates and having Salvadoran food down the block from her. She says it reminds her of her mom.

You miss her so much you can barely stand it, sometimes. You see each other once or twice a week, maybe, but you can’t ever spend the night and she’s working full-time on top of classes. You feel _bad_ , keeping her out when she’s busy trying to make something of herself. Don’t feel like anything other than a distraction, a lot of days.

You look at her and it’s like your chest is about to crack open. Like you could physically take your heart out and hand it over to her, because you don’t trust nobody else to take care of it. Claudia’s a lot of things, things you love even if you know it’s not all good. She lets you get away with too much and everyone knows it. Doesn’t know how to say no, or raise her voice, even when you pick fights. She loves you but don’t trust the life your living, lies when she thinks you won’t like what you’re going to hear. Makes you mad twice over. What else does she lie to you about, huh? What won’t she trust you with?

She’s doing her best, same as you are. Only difference is that her best will actually get her somewhere, and yours will have you disappointing her over and over again until she can’t take it anymore. Like tonight, you telling her that you can’t make it to San Diego and her on the phone with her voice about to break. Fuck.

“Whatchu want me to do?” you say, finally. Willing her to say something. Almost anything, just not _nothing_.

You listen to her breathe. When she speaks, she’s angry.

“I wish you’d just fucking listen to me,” she says, and you almost take a step back. It’s like she’s standing right in front of you. She never talks to you like that—this has to be a first. “All this fucking talk, sabés, ‘bout how you want better for Cesar, how you tired of living like this, y pa’ qué? Cuchillos comes calling and it’s like you’re a fucking dog.”

“I—”

“No,” she says, and you can imagine her, one hand up like she can physically stop the words from coming out your mouth, “no, I’mma fucking speak for once, since it’s clear I been quiet for too long. You proud of your life? Is this how you wanna live, Oscar? You got a fucking kid. You out gangbanging, and you have a _kid_. Is that all Cesar’s gonna be? Is that all _you_ wanna be?”

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and she laughs, ugly, into the phone.

“You got a _choice_ ,” she says, “you _always_ have a choice, especially now, Oscar, when you got as much responsibility as you do. This isn’t—this isn’t the only shit you been pulling, alright, the past six months been—”

“What,” you interrupt her, “what, they been what? If I remember correctly you was living with me for part of them, so—”

“What did we do, eh, those two or three months I was living witchu? I was busy taking care of Cesar while _you_ ran around with your fucking Santos—”

“How you think I get shit paid for?” you shout, “You think they’re gonna hire me, looking like this?”

“Why the fuck did you get that cross!” she shouts back, voice crackling over the connection, “And don’t say shit about me liking it, alright, fuck you, you shoulda known better—”

“Fuck me? Fuck you!” You don’t even sound like yourself. Sound like something raised by either of your parents instead of yourself, twelve when your father left and not even eighteen when your mom disappeared. Fuck this noise. “You out here talking all that woo-woo like you ain’t been out here this whole time—”

“I’m not some fucking hoodrat,” she snaps, “I’m your girl, a _Santos_ ’ girl, and I know what that means. I’m trying to be more than that, fuck, and I thought you wanted that, too!”

You swallow. She’s breathing real heavy over the phone.

When she speaks you can imagine the set of her jaw, the way she must be clenching her teeth. She says, “You ain’t shit, Diaz, and I don’t know why I spend so much time trying to pretend it isn’t true.”

The dial tone is loud. You stare out at nothing, like the car Cuchillos sent for you ain’t idling out front, like Cesar hasn’t been a little too quiet in his room, Adrian no doubt lingering in the kitchen pretending to give you privacy.

“Fuck this,” you say, and dial a different number. Cuchillos is going to have to wait.

-

“Who’d you send instead?” Claudia says when she opens the door and finds you there. She doesn’t look happy.

“Santi owed me a favor,” you say, and follow her to her room. It’s a Thursday, but it doesn’t seem like her roommates are there.

“It’s half-off drinks tonight,” she says, sounding bored. “Yoli invited me but I gotta catch the first bus down to the border, so…”

“I’ll take you,” you say. “We can leave Cesar with Adrian.”

She crosses her arms, plops herself down on her bed. Her eyebrows pull together, mouth turned down. She’s not quite pouting, but it’s close enough. You want to skip the apologizing part like you always do, but you know that’s not going to slide this time.

When she sighs it’s with her whole body. “Why you here, Oscar?”

“You really mean that?” you say. Your voice starts shaking. “What you said to me?”

She finally looks at you. Eyes like they know too much, and they probably do. She’s dealt with your shit without ever complaining, never brought hers up unless you did first. You’re surprised she didn’t lose her patience a hundred times already. Figures it’s tonight, instead. Of course she’s mad. You promised, and lately you ain’t been keeping any of the ones you make. You’re lucky she let you in at all.

“That’s why you’re here?” she rolls her eyes. Jaw set. “’Course.”

Your mouth parts. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“ _Don’t_ talk to me like that,” she says, tone steely. “I’m not some hyna from the block.”

You swallow. Think of everything you’ve said to her in the last few weeks. Months, even. Since she moved out and said _that’s_ what was best for her. La Avenida, a fuerzas, where she needed to be. It stung. Shit, thinking about it still hurts. It was so good, living together. Sharing a space, your body getting used to hers in your bed. Just sleeping together. Coming home to the two people you loved best. But she needed to leave, and you knew that before she even made the move. Didn’t much matter in the moment though. Maybe you could have handled it better.

You could handle _this_ better, too, this moment between you two. You just got to apologize. She laughs when you do.

“You don’t get it,” she says, and she won’t look at you. “God, no matter what I do, what I say, ni me hacés caso. ‘S like you don’t care.”

“About what?” you say. A little desperate.

“Me,” she snaps, and stands up. Starts pacing around her room. “ _Us_. Oscar, you don’t care about nobody but yourself and I’m tired of it.”

“That’s not—”

“Basta,” she says, “I’m not _stupid_. I’m not blind, neither, you running around with the Santos like you got no real responsibilities—and that’s _not true_.”

“You and me—”

“And Cesar?” she says, and you stop short. “You bring him by with no warning, o qué, you forget that too?” She leans in close. Her mouth is a line. “Oscar. How much you using lately?”

“No,” you say, loud. She straightens up. Watches you almost suspiciously. “Hey. No, I’m not…”

“So you’re clean now?”

You don’t want to lie to her. You say, “’S not more than I ever do.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says, her expression twisted up into something—angry, and disgusted, and a little ugly. Not that she is. More like she’s seen something she wants out of her sight.

“Whatchu want me to say?”

“Nothing,” she says, and throws her hands up, “for fuck’s sake, Oscar, you screwed up! Own up to it! You don’t get to come over here saying you sorry when nothing’s gonna fucking change.”

“You don’t know that,” you say, “you don’t get to just decide I’m never gonna—”

“Never gonna what? Clean your act up?” she says. When she smiles it’s not inviting. “Who’s gonna hire you, eh, with that tear? Everyone knows what it means.”

You suck your teeth, spit, “Y qué, you think you better than me then? You think you the shit, ‘cause you found a way to get out of here? You leaving everyone behind.”

“Hijo de tu—” she cuts herself off, spins around to face you. “I don’t _want_ to leave nobody. I keep _asking_ you to come with.”

“I can’t just—”

“Why not,” she says, her voice desperate, high, plaintive, “what’s stopping you? We can take Cesar, we can leave together, why the fuck won’t you just—”

“It’s not that simple,” you say, or maybe shout, because you’re louder than you mean to be and she’s staring at you, eyes huge and hurt-looking. Glassy, maybe, from the tears she won’t let fall. “Can’t nobody leave the Santos once they’re in.”

“Cuchillos likes you, he’ll—”

“I’m his second,” you say, “shit, you believe that? Nineteen and almost in charge.” You spread your arms, watch her expression fall, “Ain’t you proud of me, baby?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she says, sounding trembly, “that’s not…”

“This is all I’m gonna be, right?” you say, “That’s what you just said.”

“That’s what _you_ believe,” she snaps. Tears slip down her face. “You fucking asshole, you really came over here just to—”

“You’re the one saying—”

“Go fuck yourself,” she shouts, “how long I been witchu? How much shit do I put up with? Your fucking friends being nasty, la droga, Cuchillos—”

“If it wasn’t for Cuchillos,” you say, seriously, “Cesar would’ve starved.”

“Sin Cuchillos,” she hisses, face wet, teeth bared, “you wouldn’t have killed someone at _sixteen_ , Oscar.”

You stare at each other. She starts laughing, only it turns into tears almost immediately.

“I can’t stand you,” she says, voice breaking, and you step towards her instinctively. She hits the palm of her hand against your chest once, twice, three times, before just leaning her head against the same spot. Her breathing is shaky but she lets you wrap your arms around her, her fingers curling around your waist.

Maybe you’re a little relieved she still wants you, at least a little.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and she shakes her head. Picks her head up, wipes at her eyes with one hand.

“That don’t mean shit to me,” she says, and maybe your heart breaks, just a little. More tears fall and you rub one away with your thumb. She huffs something that, in another life, might have been a laugh. “Oscar…”

She lets you kiss her. You try to make it feel like an apology. You wipe more tears away; she never really starting crying, but her face is wet. Salt on her mouth sealing the moment in your memory. You press your tongue to her lower lip and she opens her mouth against yours, sighs when you grip her jaw. Her fingers are still clenched in the fabric of your shirt, but her hands feel hot even through that. You don’t want her to ever take her hands off you.

Maybe now’s not the best time to get into bed together, but neither you or Claudia have ever been good at not touching each other. Her mouth is so warm, and she fits against you perfectly, and every time you tighten your grip, momentarily, on her nape she makes a noise that makes you go hot. You bite her lower lip and she moans, slips her hands up your shirt and lets you press kisses to her neck.

She sighs your name. You’ve heard it from other girls but it sounds best from her. Clothes come off slowly but surely—it feels like it’s been forever since you really took the time to get her out of them. Since you got your mouth on every inch of her, since she got her hands on you, too. In bed you kiss your way down her belly, her legs falling open like you both like best. You bite her inner thigh.

“Oscar,” she says again.

“I gotchu,” you say, and lick a broad, slow stroke upwards. She sighs. Skims her hands over your shoulders while you press your tongue against her, the both of you moaning. You love eating her out, love getting her spread out on a bed underneath you and getting your mouth on her. Can’t help but groan at the sight and taste and sensation. You like how intimate it really feels, to be surrounded by nothing but her, the taste and feel and sound all around you. Like how soft the insides of her thighs are, how her back arches when you pull back to bite. 

She sighs something that sounds like _yes_ and you press deeper, where she tastes strongest, and it makes her moan almost as loud as when you get your mouth on her clit. She calls your name and there’s nowhere, _nowhere_ , you’d rather be, not now, not ever. Want to spend hours between her thighs, sucking kisses into her skin and forgetting everything except what she tastes like, what she feels like, wet and writhing up against you.

“Please,” she says, and you lick, lick, lick the way you know she likes best, one hand gripping her thigh so she doesn’t close her legs around you. You don’t mind it much, but you’re not done with her yet. She whimpers, hips jerking up against your face. She gets even wetter than she already was, slick against your tongue. She twitches against you. “ _Oscar_.”

“Más?” you say, just barely pulling away. You can feel her thighs trembling a little. Her chest is heaving, and you admire her for a second, the way there’s sweat over her skin and the way her eyes are wide. Her fingers are splayed over your neck, and she lifts one hand to stroke your face. Right over the tattoo. You take her wrist and kiss it.

She says, “What are we doing?”

And you say, “Let me take care of you,” and she lets you put your mouth on her again and do what you do best. She keeps moaning, louder now. You almost wish you’d had her on top, instead, but you like having her under you, like rubbing up against her sheets, just a little, while you get her more than ready for you.

“Oh, God,” she says when you slide two fingers in. You rub up inside her, curl your fingers, and her breathing gets fast. She says _oh God_ again, starts squirming. You suck on her clit and she arches. “ _Oscar_.”

You twist your wrist. Let her fuck herself on your fingers for as long as she wants, until she says, “Please, God, just fuck me,” and then you press a kiss to her thigh and bite down. Hard. Her hips jerk forward again, and you lick, too gently, across that warm, wet heat of her.

She’s begging you now. Sweet sounding. Just your name, or _please_ , or _oh_ _God_. You’re a little surprised she’s not threatening you. You’re painfully hard already, thinking of pushing into her, of getting her on her belly, of biting the dark letters of your name across her shoulder blade.

You find that spot inside her again, mouth on her clit, and start fucking her with your fingers, pero with _intent_. She’s squirming, won’t stop moving, keeps saying your name like it’s the only thing she’s got left. She’s _dripping_ , and just when you think that she’s close—

Maybe you shouldn’t describe it like a wave but that’s what it feels like. Her whole body strains. There’s wetness across her skin and down your face and against your tongue, mouth open against her because you like the way it feels when she comes on you. More than you’ve ever felt a girl make, before, and it seems to last forever, her moans twisting into something a little surprised sounding. Both of you off-guard. She grinds up against your face and you take it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you breathe when it ends. Your face is dripping. You didn’t realize girls could actually do that. She’s still trembling; you can feel it against your skin, cheek pressed to the inside of her thigh. She’s pulsing, practically, around your fingers. These sheets are ruined, and you’re hard, and you think she might kick you out anyway but even if she does you deserve it. You lift your head, jaw aching and say, a little shell-shocked, “Baby. You okay?”

Her hand jerks towards your face, making you flinch. She just haphazardly strokes your eyebrow.

“Come here,” she says, sounding breathless, and you crawl up the bed, press your whole body against hers as you do.

She reaches down to stroke you, and you moan, hips thrusting forward for a second before you can still them. When she kisses you it’s with tongue, sloppy, licking at your chin and biting at your jaw like she doesn’t care that she can taste herself all over you. She touches you and touches you and slides her legs open and there you are, inside her, her breath a sigh against your skin.

Her voice is fragile when she speaks. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Good,” you say, voice rough. She’s so _wet_. Her breath hitches every time you thrust, one hand rubbing at her clit already like she’s close again and the other clutching at your back. You take both in yours and pin them near her head, pull out slowly and push back in just the same, both of you moaning. Her chest heaves, slick with sweat, and you duck your head to press your mouth there, savoring her whimpers when you suck, lightly, on a nipple. Circling your hips, you say, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re _such_ an _asshole_ ,” she manages, and her voice almost breaks, “you come—over here, like it’s _nothing_ —”

“Not like nothing,” you say, and hit that sweet spot she likes again, mouths barely brushing as she moans. “Yell at me more, baby.”

“Fuck off,” she says, hips moving to meet yours, “every day, pendejo, every—again, do that again, fuck—”

“I love you,” you say, desperate, because she’s close and you are, too, and it’s _true_ , if you didn’t you wouldn’t be here, Christ, to think you were really going to just _dip_ tonight instead of—

You don’t last much longer than she does, but she’s on round three and you’re not. The sheets are covered in more bodily fluids than the either of you want to deal with, really, but for some reason she doesn’t kick you out of bed like you deserve. She brings her hands up and just covers her face, your shoulders touching and you panting like your lungs don’t work. You’re _exhausted_ , more than just physically. Like you could sleep for a week straight and it wouldn’t make a difference, because here you are in Claudia’s bed and you don’t feel much better than before you got in it.

“No te perdono,” Claudia says, finally, hands over her eyes. She pulls them away and turns her head a little, just looks at you with her mouth pursed. “You do this shit all the time, and I’m tired of it, Oscar.”

“I know,” you say, and reach out to take a hand in yours. “I’m gonna do better, alright? I promise.”

She clenches her jaw. “Are you really though? ‘Cause Oscar, I can’t…I’m not gonna keep doing this witchu. I don’t wanna be arguing all the time.”

“We don’t argue that much,” you say, and it’s only true because she won’t yell back. You’re glad she did this time, and not just because that was probably the best sex the two of you have ever had. You deserve to be yelled at sometimes.

“That’s ‘cause I let you do too much,” she says, but squeezes your hand anyway. “How’d you convince Cuchillos, eh, to let you skip whatever shit you was supposed to do today?”

“I didn’t,” you say, “who cares. He can be pissed about it later. I wasn’t gonna let you be mad at me all weekend.”

“So we gonna talk about it for real then?” she says, eyebrows up, “’Cause what you tried doing wasn’t cool, sabés.”

“I said I was gonna take you—”

“It’s not about that,” she says, sharp. “It’s that you say you’re gonna follow through on something and then you disappear and _I’m_ the one who’s gotta take care of shit back home. I love Cesar, Oscar, like he’s my own blood, but you can’t just drop him on me with no warning, and you been doing that since I moved out. Shit, you barely be answering my texts, ‘s like you don’t even want me no more.”

Her voice trembles, just the tiniest bit. If you hadn’t heard all of its variations in the last few years you wouldn’t recognize it at all. You can’t even respond before she continues.

“I’m not your nanny,” she says, “you can’t come around when it’s convenient.”

“I don’t,” you say, and your voice breaks. She grins, just a little. It doesn’t look very sweet.

“Yeah,” she says, “you do. You bring Cesar by or you come pick me up for food and then a fuck. When’s the last we spent more than two hours together, huh? We used to kick it all the time.”

There isn’t much for you to say. “I’m sorry.”

“What are we doing?” she says, “Like, where the fuck is this going, Oscar? We been dating two years, but lately it feels like that don’t matter. I’m not saying I wanna get married,” she says, and maybe that’s what you were going to suggest, so you close your mouth, “but we don’t even spend time together no more. That’s not a relationship, hombre, that’s something _convenient_.”

“I don’t want you to feel like that,” you say, because that shit _hurts_. You just said it, didn’t you? You love her, she loves you, she’s the only family you got besides Cesar and you’re not trying to lose that. You want what’s best for her and you want _her_ and you want her around, forever.

“Well I do,” she says, matter-of-fact, “and I’m always gonna be there for Cesar, but that don’t mean I gotta put up witchu, vale?”

It feels like someone dumped a bucket of water over you. Fuck. “This it, then?”

“You tell me,” she says. Her eyes are real serious.

“I love you,” you say again, and she shakes her head a little, closes her eyes.

“That’s not enough,” she says, “love don’t mean nothing if you can’t prove it. I know how we live. I don’t need fancy shit. I want you around, alright? But I can’t fucking find you lately.”

“I’m gonna do better,” you say. You wonder if you sound as desperate as you feel.

“No te creo,” she says, voice breaking. Her eyes shine, your stomach dropping at the thought of making her cry again. She lets go of your hand and you feel cold.

“Tell me how to fix it,” you say, and she huffs a laugh. A tear slides down her face. She won’t look at you.

“You really wanna know?”

“Yeah.”

“I want us to leave,” she says, “I’m tired of Freeridge. I’m tired of living like this. I can’t leave Santos territory without some mothafucker in green telling me they looking for you. You think I like that? I gotta worry about me _and_ you, _and_ Cesar, and, fuck, I don’t know these people, they might go after Araceli or one of my friends y pa’ qué? To get at _you_? What kinda life is that?”

“It’s mine,” you say, like it matters, and she shakes her head again.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she says, “I can’t keep looking over my shoulder. I only go to Freeridge for you. Araceli knows she’s safer visiting me over here. I got no reason to leave La Avenida if I don’t want to.”

You breathe in. Deep, like it might help you clear your head. It feels too calm, too controlled, when in your head it’s a mess of panic and hurt and absolute despair. Is this it? One last night together before she sends you home with the key you gave her? What, she’ll stop by once in a while to spoil Cesar and treat you like she doesn’t know you half as well as she does? Cesar asked, once, over the summer, if the two of you were going to get married. You meant it when you said one day.

“I’m asking you to come with me,” she says, “for God’s sake, Oscar. This isn’t what you wanted your life to be. Please.”

The two of you look at each other.

“I can’t promise you that,” you say.

“Then why are you _here_ ,” she says, and more tears slide down her face.

“Because I want to,” you say. “I wanna promise you everything. I wanna make you happy.”

“You can’t just do this shit for me,” she says, rubbing at her eyes. She sniffs. You feel like shit.

“For Cesar,” you say, “he shouldn’t…he shouldn’t think this is normal. I don’t. Fuck, Claudis, it’s all I know.”

“You’re smart,” she says, looking at you again, “learn something new. No seás dundo.”

You want to tell her you’re not half as smart as you need to be, keeping up with her. Doing right by Cesar. Being the best man you can be. You say, “So what do we do?”

“I can’t make you do shit,” she says, “me voy a San Diego mañana. You don’t have to come.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Oscar.”

“Do you?” you say, insistent. “Si no me quieres, aquí me quedo. I don’t want you to think…I don’t want you to have me come with just ‘cause you think I’ll…I’ll be mad, or—”

“You won’t be mad,” she says, “you’ll be _hurt_. Think I don’t wanna spend time witchu, when it’s the opposite.”

“Claudia…”

“No,” she says, “no, I don’t wanna keep arguing. We’re gonna go in circles.”

“I’m gonna fix this,” you say. “Te lo juro, alright, I’m not gonna. I’m not gonna keep hurting you.”

She stares at you. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

You kiss her. Your eyes feel heavy with tears, too. You say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay, believe me,” over and over until she shushes you, mouth on yours.

“Go to sleep,” she says, “ya, basta, we’ll deal with it later,” so you do, dreaming uneasily with her skin against yours. Dreams of a house on a beach, empty and beautiful and nothing without Claudia.

-

(“I need you out here today, mijo,” Cuchillos says the next day, so really, the decision is made for you. Maybe you owe him something, or maybe Claudia’s right. But if it weren’t for him you wouldn’t be able to take care of Cesar the way you do, even if you stay fucking up. It’s better than how your parents raised you, right? That’s what counts. That’s all you’re trying to do.

When you answer the phone it’s early, because you’ve got to get Claudia to the bus station. You’re not going to San Diego; she said she was just going to go down by herself. Said, _Ya, Oscar, don’t make me say it again_. You feel a little numb. She always knows how to get to you. Just like Cuchillos.

“Take my car,” you tell her, and she says no, she’ll bus. You argue about it, but she gets her way, almost gets out at the station without kissing you goodbye. She does, though, palm against your cheek like she might be thinking of smacking you. You’d deserve that, too.

On the phone, Cuchillos says to make it quick.

In the end it doesn’t really matter. You should have just driven her. You shouldn’t have broken your promise. Friday goes badly. And then Saturday. And then Sunday, you in a cruiser and locked up for the night. There’s Claudia the next day, spitting mad in Araceli’s car, you with nothing but the memory of her mouth on yours to get you through the nightmare that gets to you, anyway.)


End file.
